Chapter VII - Council of War
We went to the room in which I had first been questioned. Bartleby went straight to his desk and sat behind it, thoughtfully pressing his thumb against his lips and staring out the window. I pulled aside the little stool and sat in the morning sunshine.
In a moment the door burst open and the marquis entered, looking puzzled. He closed the door and paused, hand still on the knob, and looked back and forth between us.
“What did I miss?” he said.
“That wasn’t the woman,” I said quickly. “They substituted another that looked the same but talked different.”
“What?”
“Apparently Albert was struck by some quality in the real woman’s voice,” said Bartleby, “and this woman made a very poor comparison.”
“Ah,” said the marquis. “But what was that tug of war business between you and Tybalt, with poor Albert in the middle?”
“Tybalt saw him change his mind, “ said Bartleby. The marquis sat down on the edge of the chair to listen and leaned one elbow on the desk. “I don’t know what he was trying to do. Perhaps just trying to delay Albert from saying anything. Make it look like an afterthought, as if he wasn’t sure.”
“He may have succeeded there,” replied the marquis. He put his chin on his hand and regarded me for a moment. “How was her voice different?”
“The real woman had a very rich and melodic voice,” I said.
“By your own account you didn’t hear much of her voice. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Voices can change with mood. How do you know that the change wasn’t a matter of her being so distressed then and calm now?”
“Voices go up in distress, not down,” I said, my voice going up some itself.
“But some voices get rather deep, and even melodic, when they get hoarse.”
“She wasn’t hoarse.”
“But she might have been. And you are a rather imaginative young lad.”
“It was not her!” I said, standing up. “I’m not making it up.”
“I believe you, Albert,” said the marquis, patting the air. “I’m just playing the devil’s advocate, and you can be sure that devil’s advocate will ask much harder questions. Now sit down, that’s a good lad. Let’s look at what they have on their side. A reasonably respectable adult woman who will swear she is the one, plus the admission by Tybalt that he committed the crime, against that particular woman. Nice little sleight of hand there. And they have Hugo’s weight behind them.”
“They also have a very plausible story,” cut in Bartleby, “considering Tybalt’s reputation.”
“On our side,” continued the marquis, with a nod of acknowledgment to Bartleby, “we have a rather young boy who thinks the voice is different, although he has already positively identified the woman as the victim. An imaginative boy who is looking for excitement, and has run away from home—don’t think I didn’t guess, Albert—and whom Wilhelm Bloch, that fine upstanding royal stableman, has already labelled as unreliable.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“Doesn’t matter what you are, only what he says.”
“Did you get a chance to speak to the queen?” asked Bartleby. “What does she say?”
“She wasn’t satisfied, even without knowing about this voice thing. However, she thinks it would be more valuable to let them think she is satisfied.”
“I agree with her,” said Bartleby. “No point in hurling accusations all around, when we can keep an eye on them better this way.”
“And we have the woman’s life to think of, if she is alive.”
They both nodded and thought.
“I wish I knew whether Tybalt is working for Hugo, or if this is some mischief of his own,” said Bartleby.
“We know he’s working for somebody,” I said. They both looked at me as if I had popped out of no where.
“What?” said the marquis, startled.
“When he kidnapped her they were talking about someone else, remember? Or didn’t I tell you that?”
“I think you did,” said the marquis. “She was afraid that some mysterious ‘he’ would kill her.”
“She said she would pay Tybalt to let her go,” I said nodding. “But he said someone wanted to see her. I think. I can’t remember so well now.”
“Combine that with the note, and I’d say he’s working for Hugo,” said the marquis to Bartleby. The colonel nodded and they both smiled. I rested my elbows on the desk to listen.
“This could have interesting results,” said Bartleby. “If we catch Tybalt red-handed, so that Hugo can’t get him out of it, he won’t hesitate to implicate Hugo.”
“Perhaps we can even catch Hugo red-handed, eh?” said the marquis. “I never liked this wedding business anyway.” They stopped talking and I looked from one to the other.
“What note?” I said.
“Note?”
“You said something about a note.”
“Ah, the note. That’s how we got into this blasted business,” said the marquis. Bartleby put his hand on his arm in warning, and the marquis stopped and looked at me. Then he shook his head. “I don’t see why not tell him. The more he knows, the more likely he will remember something important. I’m sure Hugo knows, he’s got spies, and how else would Tybalt have known where to wait for her? You see, Albert, I got a note from her several days ago. It was addressed to the queen, but it was sent to me. It was very secretive. She did not sign her name, or state her business. She simply said that she had something to tell the queen. It was important, and her life was in danger, and she must have the queen’s protection to tell it. She also begged us not to trust anyone at all, because this woman’s enemies might number among the queen’s friends. I was inclined to think she was a lunatic, but the queen was interested. So we went to the place and time she indicated, and you know what we found. I really don’t even know if the woman kidnapped was the one who sent the note. I wish I knew who she was.”
The marquis sat back and thought. Bartleby, however, had a half smile on his face, as if he was trying to remember something. Suddenly he slapped his hand down on the table, making both of us jump.
“Have you ever heard the name Alice MacGuffin?” he said. Neither of us answered. “All the while we talked to that young lady impostor I was thinking that she reminded me of someone, and now I recall who it was. Mrs. Alice MacGuffin. A Scotch opera singer. I saw her perform once when visiting relatives in England. Opera. Does it make you think of anything?”
“Albert and his so memorable voices,” said the marquis.
“She could have been an opera singer,” I said. “You should have heard her scream.”
“I did,” said the marquis. “But George, do you know this MacGuffin woman well enough to be sure?”
“No, but it can be checked. She wasn’t a great singer, but she was a very popular operetta performer. She had quite an extravagant personality. Someone will know where she has been recently, or if she’s missing.”
“Hugo’s quite the opera-goer,” said the marquis, rubbing his chin. “He and Sigmond are always raving about some opera singer or other. I wonder what she could possibly have found out, though.”
“I can try to track down if, and when, she had ever met them. It may take a while, though.”
“In the meantime we must find out what we can here,” said the marquis. “Albert.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You keep an eye on the comings and goings of Hugo’s men in the stable. Particularly Tybalt. Can you do that?”
“Oh, yes, sir. But I can’t always find you to tell you right away.”
“It doesn’t need to be right away. They’d be gone before I could do anything anyway. No, you just keep your eyes and ears open, and remember as much as you can. Oh, and Albert, if Tybalt, or anyone, asks you about that woman’s voice or about your belief in her identity, tell him the truth. Her voice so
unded different. But also say that we did not believe you, and perhaps that we convinced you that you were mistaken.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to just say I have no doubts in the first place?”
“Tybalt saw you change your mind, lad,” said Bartleby.
“Yes, but you must also be sure not to say anything you don’t need to,” added the marquis. “Be open, don’t act like you are hiding anything—that’s why I think we should stick as close to the truth as possible—but only say what you have to.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “That won’t be hard.” I was getting a lot of practice at that kind of lying lately.
“You had better get to work, Albert,” said the marquis, standing up. “And I have to get to the queen and tell her about this.”
“Sirs?” I asked. “Will I get to see the queen sometime? Does she ever come out to the stable?”
The marquis and Bartleby looked at one another and both burst out laughing. “Why Albert,” said the marquis. “You were just in the same room with her. It was a small room. You couldn’t have missed her.”
“That man and woman I didn’t know?”
“She was sitting on the settee with Duke Sigmond.”
“That was the queen?”
“Yes. What did you expect? A crown, robes and scepter?” He chuckled and patted me on the back. “Come on, Albert. Back to the stable.”
For the life of me I could not recall any detail of the queen’s face or person. She was simply half of a nondescript couple which had sat on a couch slightly outside the center of attention. I could remember the man slightly better. Duke Sigmond struck me as a middle aged fop, not like my father, who was a well preserved middle aged fop, but like a wastrel whose face showed his years.
“Where have you been?” asked Hans, when I got back to the stable. He looked harried as he bounced out of a stall.
“I’ve just had an audience with the queen,” I said, still slightly dazed by the idea. “And I didn’t even know she was there.”
Hans laughed immediately. “I had to have her pointed out to me three times before I could recognize her,” he said. “She doesn’t like attention. Why were you there?”
“Oh! They called me to . . . .”
“Wait! Here comes Uncle Wil, and we’re way behind.”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said as we jumped for our muck sacks. Bloch came barreling down the corridor, looking furious, but also pleased in a way. The wicked old man enjoyed bawling out stableboys.
“Hans!” he yelled. “This all should have been done by now.”
“I’m sorry sir,” I said. “I was called away.”
“But you weren’t,” he boomed at Hans, taking hold of his collar. “You lazy, worthless little ingrate. Just like your father. I gave you this job. Nobody else ever would have.”
“I’m...I’m...,” Hans could not get any further sounds out. He had gone rather pale, but he did not bother to shake in his boots, because his uncle was doing that for him.
“It’s not his fault,” I said. “I was....”
“Be quiet you,” said Bloch, lashing out at me with his free hand. I rocked back to avoid the slap, and then leapt forward, my automatic reaction being to strike back. Bloch jumped back when I jumped forward, releasing Hans’ collar and bumping into the back end of a horse. Luckily for him he was too close for the animal to get its heels up, and the creature merely shoved him back at me. By then I had recovered my self control, but Bloch looked close on losing his. He was furious, but he seemed uncertain what to do. I could see he wanted to hit me, but he did not want to get hit back. He made some incomprehensible sounds of fury, which I think were intended to be a bawling out.
“Get to work!” he said at last. “Get those stalls mucked out. And you, Hans—“ he paused and spoke more calmly, “—Sea Sprite needs turning out. You put him in the south paddock.”
Hans glanced apprehensively between Bloch and Sea Sprite’s stall.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“You’ll get your stall mucked,” said Bloch.
I backed away and picked up my muck sack. Hans went reluctantly to fetch Sea Sprite’s halter. When he came back he paused by the stall where I was.
“This is his way of torturing the stableboys,” he said. “If he’s mad at you, you get Sea Sprite.”
“I like Sea Sprite,” I said.
“Well, you happen to be crazy. I’m beginning to think you like anything with four hooves and a tail.”
“Probably.”
“I don’t know what Uncle Wil’s going to do about punishing you.”
“I think this is my punishment,” I said looking down at the pile of horse manure I was supposed to remove. “He’s gone now. Wanna trade?”
Hans sighed in resignation. “No, he’ll be back. It isn’t so bad. Sea Sprite likes to go outside, almost at much as he likes tearing people limb from limb. Well, here I go.” He fidgeted his shoulders slightly, adjusting his jacket, and walked away slowly.
Fifteen minutes later I was out stomping on the manure pile. I could still hear the sounds of battle going on inside the stable.
“Alfred!”
I turned and watched Tybalt approach from the stable. I did not bother to correct him this time. It was not my name anyway. He came rather jauntily, playing with his riding crop and grinning.
“I need my horse, but that other boy appears to be rather busy.” His face became dead earnest as he spoke, then he laughed. I did not think it was particularly funny, but he was so delighted by it that it was infectious, and I felt like laughing too. I frowned and made a pointed show of my displeasure.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, and I turned away to stamp on the manure a bit longer.
“Mad at me, Bertram?”
“Albert!” I snapped. He grinned.
“I’m sorry I didn’t turn out to be such a horrid villain after all,” he said, almost earnestly. “I know you were counting on it. I should be furious myself if someone took away my adventure.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“Just because you didn’t do anything so bad this time, doesn’t mean you’re not a horrid villain,” I said. While I was standing on the manure pile I was taller than he was and I could look down my nose at him, which I did now.
“Touché,” he said emphatically. I thought it was rather good myself. After all, it implied that I believed him and his impostor woman, and against my will, which made it all the more convincing.
Just then the stable door burst open and out came Hans and Sea Sprite. The horse had his ears back, his eyes half closed, his nostrils wide and his teeth bared, but he was heading willingly for the pasture at a fast trot. Hans was holding onto his halter with both hands and running alongside. Both looked annoyed, harried, and relieved that they had got out of the stable.
“They seem to be getting on quite well now,” said Tybalt. He scooped up a rock and raised his arm to throw it at Sea Sprite.
“Hey!” I said, and whacked him on the back with my muck sack. He wheeled around and jumped at me like I had jumped at Bloch.
“You little....” He hesitated at the edge of the manure and glowered at me. Then he leaned back and half smiled, raising his eyebrows and reaching around to brush off his back. He actually did not have any manure on his back, but he could not see that, and I did not tell him. He glanced over at Hans. “Friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“Good God.” He shook his head. “You don’t know how to choose your friends, do you?”
“I know who not to pick.”
“All right, all right. Get my horse, will you? I’m in a hurry.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll give him a good grooming and saddle him right away.”
“I won’t wait that long,” he replied. “Just saddle him.”
“He ought to be brushed first.”
“My, my. Quite the stickler, aren
’t you? Oh well, always the best for Regis, I say. Go on, but be quick about it.”
It was a sunny day with a cool breeze off the mountains, a nice day for riding. Everyone was at the stable and demanding a mount. I was glad for the relief from cleaning stalls, but it got to be tiring.
I was getting to know all the horses by name. Sorting out the owners, however, was difficult. It all got very confusing. They kept switching mounts on me. Some lent their animals out, some traded, and some just stole, or tried to steal. The Viscountess von Stenbau appeared, in a new blue silk riding dress with a handsome young gentleman at each flank, demanding Regis. Gray went with her dress better than her own chestnut. She threw her riding crop at me when I could not tell her where Tybalt was or when he would be back. Then she cursed when she missed, and galloped off on her own horse, leaving me and her escorts in a cloud of dust. Immediately after that some baron came in and nearly started a fist fight over whether some other fellow should be able to ride a particular horse in a race. And they were the easy part.
It was, as I said, a tiring day.
In the evening, when the horses and the stableboys alike began to droop, Hans sat down on a trunk in the tack room and unbuttoned his collar.
“Phew,” he said. I nodded and collapsed on the floor. Hans began to tap his foot.
“I’ve been telling my family about you,” he said after a moment. “They want to meet you.”
“I’d like to meet them.” I lay back on the floor and put my arms up to cradle my head.
“They want you to come to dinner,” he said doubtfully.
“I’d like to,” I said.
“Tonight?”
“Sure.”
“You won’t get anything as fancy as you get here. Or even very good.”
“Are you inviting my to dinner, or trying to make me stay away?”
“Just warning you, that’s all.”
“I’m coming then.”